Mage of the Frost
by Alcaeus of Cronus
Summary: What makes a hero? Mutual praise by the masses. What makes a warrior? Survival in deadly and unlikely conditions. Heed the tale of Alex Sharpton, Valhallan soldier who conquered the frozen desert. (Second Chapter Added!)
1. The Chill Bites Slowly

Mage of the Frost  
  
The name is Alex Sharpton, newly dubbed "hero" of the Valhallan Imperial Guard. Sure, receiving the title was an honor in itself; it meant receiving the blessings of the Emperor and the praise of the rest of mankind. Still, it is a far gaudier name than the tale deserves. You would think me something of a golden knight embraced by the light of heaven, when actually, I'm not but a man who refused to die, and barely escaped with his flesh intact. The truth is, in the dark shadow of fate's calling, you stop fighting for mankind and start fighting for yourself.  
  
Trudging through the frozen tundra that had laid waste to this fallen city was far worse than the battles fought on it. Needless to say, the scenery gave no hope of survival. The rooftops of ancient buildings emerged from the snow, tips of mighty stone titans that stretched ever down to frozen earth. Frostbitten skeletons eroded from the south ends of the dunes. The wind was still, but restless on the horizon near the site of inevitable struggle: the legendary Tower of the Tundra, a frozen palace that seemed to pierce the sky in its height. Legend had it that no man to brave the "Tower of Death," as most had come to call it, saw the tip before frozen to the bone. I could only hope that I would be the exception.  
  
The tower was not for miles yet; a distance that could only feel as long as it did when weather fights you back. For a portion of the trek, I had the aid of an armored snowmobile. However, the malice of the biting chill made itself known not long after the sky began to gray. Before I even had a chance to plan a way to survive, the cold had worked its way to the engine, and the energy cell had cooled to the point of instability. I was fighting for my life sooner than I'd thought; dodging the explosion and flying shrapnel didn't leave me unscathed. Cuts on my face, arms, and chest from my own vehicle were enough of an omen for me, and it wasn't a good one.  
  
The heat from the flames left by the explosion felt pleasant, but I had no time to relax. The fire would soon die down, nightfall quickly approached, and I was far from shelter. So, weighed down by my own supplies, I continued on foot toward the tower. In its eerie silence, it seemed to stare back at me from over the ice and snow, mocking me in my misfortune.  
  
It was soon deep within the dead of night, but I could still see the shapes of the dunes and frozen structures in a hazy, gray darkness. I must have walked for hours, struggling against my own feet that sunk ankle deep with each step, but I eventually found an acceptable form of shelter for the night. One of the nearby buildings eroded from within the snow was still whole and stable on its lowest story, though the window was broken and was at the mercy of the cold.  
  
I stepped in and examined my surroundings. It was some sort of office building from thousands of years ago. A desk and chair stood flimsy in the far corner of the room, and in metal cabinets were old paper documents on partially rotted paper. The walls were chipped and lined with their own gravel and sharp cobble. There was old carpeting, but it was worn and torn from the floor at points.  
  
The documents and wooden desk made for handsome fire material. The torn carpeting blocked out the cold nicely when pinned over the broken window by a couple of my throwing knives. All things considered, the ruins of the office made for quite comfortable surroundings. However, I nearly went hungry; I had only two emergency rations left, and they would have to last me the entirety of the journey. I ate slightly less than my fill, but I was satisfied. The cowardice of my comrades that retreated in fear of the elements left me at a lack of an appetite, anyhow.  
  
I lay near the fire, supporting my head with my supplies pack and covering myself with my wolf pelt cloak, my sword and guns lying in wait for use against the wall behind me. Optimism escaped me, but rest brought me peace, though short lived. Hours later I awoke to distant scratching, and screeching, frustrated, agonized howls. It then became very clear to me that I wasn't alone in this frozen desert, and I would not reach my goal without struggle and bloodshed.  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Living Wraiths of the Insane

After hearing that awful racket the night before, sleep didn't come easily. It's hard to rest at ease when you're praying that you won't be some unknown something's next meal. The morn brought little more reassurance that I'd live, either; other than the fact that I could see whose belly I'd be filling.  
  
I'd not soon see myself running with my tail between my legs after considering myself such a brave warrior, taking to the field alone in the shadow of certain death. Even still, caution was a must. From that point on, I took not a single step without either gun or blade drawn and ready.  
  
For at least a mile, there was no sign of direct threat to my life. I saw nothing but dunes of blinding white powder, and heard nothing but my own shivering breath and the soft crunch of my boots against the snow. I tried to convince myself that I was merely hallucinating, but any marine of my experience learned to trust gut instinct before anything else.  
  
Soon, the wind began to quicken and sharpen, and it carried large flakes with it. Struggling against my own steps became tougher, and breathing, let alone seeing, became nearly impossible. The settled flakes began to bite and redden my face, and I could feel my lips starting to swell and crack. It was as if with each step, some malevolent force sneered and scratched at me from all sides, desperate to kill me as my determination grew. And yet, still it grew.  
  
Eventually my vision became hazy, and I grew weary from sharp pain between my eyes, but my troubles were soon to become far worse. My fear and intuition were right; fiends were after my flesh. There were three of them; Tyranids, one warrior and two hormagaunt. Obviously abandoned by their hive, and separated from the hive mind, they grew insane. Their bodies were riddled with frostbite, and their sight had been taken from them, scarred deep below the brow with what must have been a chain sword.  
  
Though crippled, they were still fearsome. Sight wasn't a necessity to them, because they could smell my wounds from the day before. They sensed fresh meat, and suffered hunger on the edge of starvation. They sniffed the air and howled in frustration at that which was just out of their reach. However, it wouldn't be long before they found me.  
  
I had to think of a way to escape, and fast. If they didn't kill me, the wait in the furious cold for them to give up would. Often times, desperation leads to recklessness, and that just happened to be one of those times. Without thinking, I drew my bolter and fired at the hard armor of the hunter, a mistake that I would soon rue.  
  
I didn't have time to dwell on my idiocy, as their combined stare and intimidating, sharp hiss pointed directly toward me. They had found their food, and hesitation was obviously not their intention. In lack of sound minds and with critically injured bodies, the only thought left for them was to survive. To survive, they must feed. That thought convinced me enough that they'd stop at nothing short of death to make me their next meal.  
  
Trembling with fear, I kept low and used the soft snow to cushion the sound of my movement. I crawled behind a large wall fragment separated from a building nearby. It was at a great distance to crawl from, and my hands reddened and grew numb as I did so, but it was a minor pain to suffer for survival. Even still, I felt no safer there than the point I fired from.  
  
I waited for about a minute without moving a muscle, recognizing how much louder my breath sounded to my own ears when in terror. Suddenly, one of the hormagaunt leapt atop the edge of the wall, and he sniffed down at me, drool seeping from his teeth and down onto my shoulder. He could smell me there, I could feel it. All I could do to conceal my scent was to tighten my uniform jacket around my chest wounds, but it didn't work for long.  
  
I winced at the thought of oncoming doom, and cold sweats overcame me, even colder so than the deadly chill about the four of us. It was as if death himself readied his blade for me as I watched. I was absolutely paralyzed with fear, and the pain from the cold made movement no easier. The hormagaunt was sure of his target, and leapt down on me pinning one of my arms, and both of my legs. His breath was foul, as was his hiss, and I was sure that I was done for.  
  
I looked once more around me noticed my plasma pistol lying not far from my reach. That was it! The same type of energy cell as used in my plasma pistol caused the explosion from the day before! It was the only thing that could cause any significant damage to their armor, and thus, my only chance.  
  
I reached with all my might, but his grip was strong. It cost me further flesh wounds to my arm from his claws, but I eventually reached it. I opened the chamber and released the cell, activating it the second it was within my grip, and as I predicted, it became unstable at the touch of the cold air, rumbling fiercely in my fist. However, I foolishly failed to realize until just then that one explosion would not eliminate the three of them  
  
Thinking fast, I hurled the cell at the warrior, hoping that a larger source of sustenance and blood would draw their attention from me long enough for me to escape. The cell shattered as it struck the warrior's face, and burst with a bright flash and impact of air, and just then, the hormagaunt bit down on my shoulder, piercing through the flesh and muscle.  
  
The horrible shriek of pain and the hormagaunt's ceased attack should have been clue enough, but I had to see with my own eyes. Sure enough, the warrior's upper torso and head had been reduced to bloody scraps, rendering what was left useless. My plan was successful! The newly appeared feast made me invisible to them as they dashed for the scent of the red pile.  
I stood up slowly, my muscles in agony from the cold and attack, and gathered my scattered supplies with the only usable arm I had left. As I slowly walked onward toward the tower, I couldn't help but look back on the wretches and pity them. Forced to devour a comrade to survive the hazards of the cold and lifeless, lost hope radiating from their torn and injured bodies. Any man could sympathize with them, for it is the function of all life to resist their own inevitable fates.  
  
As I trudged onward, all my clothing on the left side of my body died a black-red from my wound, I could only hope that my own fate would not be decided in the tower because of my weakened state.  
  
To be continued... 


End file.
